March 23, 2010 10-year Colonoscopy

Today I took my dad for his 10-year colonoscopy. I had to get up early. It has been a long time since my eyes have seen 5:30. I was so nervous about over-sleeping and making Dad miss that special appointment, that I dreamed I dropped him off at 7-11 and then went thrift store shopping and was an hour late picking him up for the hospital. He was waiting and waiting for me in the early morning darkness on the street outside of 7-11. I love going thrift store shopping-- but not at 5:30 in the morning-- and not when I am supposed to be taking Dad to the hospital for his colonoscopy. It was a nightmare that made 5:30 AM not seem so bad.

We left Mom convalescing in her bed with her walker near by and walked out the door into the early snowy morn. I took along a book and expected to finish it while I waited in the quiet, tidy lobby of the hospital. But Dad loves to talk. He talked to the cleaning lady who was the only person visible at 6:45 AM. He talked to the doctors and nurses who quickly and quietly padded by. He talked a lot to the lady at the registration desk when she finally made an appearance at 7:15. And he talked to the nurse as she guided us back to the prep room.

I stood outside the tiny curtained room as dad changed into his gown. His words paused briefly as he changed. I entered the room and felt my face flush at the sight of cheeks peeking out of the back of a gown.

Once on the gurney, Dad talked some more.

The doctor moseyed in after a call from the nurse and then Dad was peacefully sleeping as he rolled out to the procedure room.

I quickly pulled out a prepackaged muffin that was stashed in my purse and gobbled it down. I didn't want to offend Dad earlier by eating it in front of him after his 24 hour liquid diet and fast. I texted Mom and let her know what was going on. I pulled out my book and read ½ page—then after 18 minutes, Dad was back! Sleeping peacefully. But talking. I don't know how that was possible, but his eyes were closed and he was talking to me!

Then the bubbles started. Long strands of air bubbles came rumbling out of my dad. I squeezed my eyes shut to stop from laughing. My dad was never one to laugh about such things. It was just a natural part of life.

I remembered rumblings from a life time ago. My brothers and sisters and I would roll on the floor with laughter when we were kids and Mom would surprise us with a bazooka blast. She would die laughing too.

I remembered my own procedure last year when they put a scope down my throat into my stomach. I woke up belching and shocked at my inability to control myself. I told Dad that story as he was drifting off to sleep 19 minutes ago. He mused. Now he made a reference to his own air bubbles. I was surprised and impressed that he acknowledged them. We laughed.

Upon checkout Dad was warned not to use heavy equipment or drive a vehicle. I told him that would include his electric saw. He was disappointed.

I thought he would take it easy when we got home. I was wrong. He was back to his usual self—almost. He didn't use his power tools (that I saw).

It's an unusual and humbling experience taking care of your aging parents. I didn't expect to see it come so quickly. Two years and 3,000 miles ago, I wouldn't have been blessed enough to have been here to help. I'm grateful once again for the miracle that brought us here—even though it didn't seem much like a miracle then.